My Name Is Dean Winchester
by jojospn
Summary: Looking at his own reflection, Dean struggles to remember. My take on the bathroom scene. SPOILERS for "Regarding Dean".


**A/N: Hi** **! I know I haven't written a lot for** _ **Supernatural**_ **as of late. To be honest, I have been kind of getting out of it, much to my regret. I still watch and enjoy, but it has been along time since I've been excited for an episode. But all that changed last Thursday. This episode not only reminded me how much I loved this show, but it inspired me to write my first fanfic in months. I hope you enjoy! And as always, I don't own** _ **Supernatural.**_

 **My Name Is Dean Winchester**

Dean stands before the bathroom mirror, hands gripping the ceramic countertop like a lifeline. He ignores the cramping of his fingers as he stares at his reflection, trying desperately to cling of any traces of memory; only for them to vanish in thin wisps. He draws a shaky breath, tries to calm, for Christsakes, he _needs_ to calm down, knowing that every passing second is one less from his past life. He can't let that happen: he _won't._ Though he can't remember, something is nagging at his brain that his brother (Sam. Sam. Sam.) has last him before, and he won't let that happen again.

"My name is Dean Winchester," he tells his reflection in a voice that's surprisingly steady. "Sam is my brother, um…" He hesitates on the name, visions of a blonde haired, green eyed woman flashing before him. He knows her. "Mary Winchester is my mom," he continues, a hint of relief as he remembers. "Cas…"

Dean pauses, hesitating for the first time. Images of a man in a trench coat, with messy, dark hair and blue eyes; _this isn't funny, Dean. The voice says I'm almost out of minutes. I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition._ "Cas is my best friend. My name is Dean W- Winchester."

He can feel it slipping away, and Dean grips the sink tighter, as if this would somehow rewire his brain back to how it should be. As expected, his mind is blank. He knows that he'd mentioned someone after his own name, more than likely the overly tall man with the too long hair just outside the bathroom. What's his name? He's certain it begins with the letter S…Oh god… He gazes downwards, regrouping his thoughts as he draws another shaky breath. _I can do this._ Trembling, he looks up once more at his reflection, but he doesn't see the man he's been told is a… a hunter? "My name is…."

And in mere moment, it vanishes. Green eyes widen in fear as he looks into a face he doesn't recognize; his lower lip trembles, and he can feel the sting of tears welling in his eyes. "My…My name is D-"

His grip on the sink relaxes as the first stray drops slowly roll down his cheek. The man bites his lower lip, swallowing the lump in his throat. Everything is gone: his family, his first kiss, his first time behind the wheel of his car, erased from his memory. For a moment, he feels anger, wants to punch the ( _what is it called? The reflection square?_ ) as if it were the cause of his goddamned amnesia. But it is fleeting; he can feel himself deflate as he stares back at the man looking back at him.

"I don't know," he whispers.

XXX

Alone in his bedroom, Dean sits on his bed, leafing through his rather small collection of old photographs. After the curse had been lifted, a flood of memories had overwhelmed him, bombarding him. Despite his calm reaction and his ability to still tease an obviously shaken (and undoubtedly pissed Sam), in truth he is barely keeping it together. He had insisted that he prefers living with his memories rather than the state of oblivion he had been in earlier; and he means that. But along with every happy memory, other darker ones threaten to overpower. An image of his mother and father on their wedding day reminds Dean of the man who'd sacrificed his life, his very soul for him all those years earlier; the older man with the worn trucker's hat and plaid button down reminds Dean of a dear friend and father figure, gunned down by Dick Roman; Sam's _Game of Thrones_ box set reminds him of a sleepover a lifetime ago and the feisty redhead sitting between them, drinking beer and discussing the all around awfulness of King Joffrey. The girl who'd sacrificed herself to save him.

Dean sighs, slipping the photos back in his dresser drawer. His gaze falls upon the old, leather bound journal tucked inside. For a moment, further memories of his father haunt him, and he almost slams the drawer shut; but instinct causes him to reach inside and pull the aging volume out. Slowly he opens it, fingers gently skimming through the pages. Each one is a story, beginning weeks before the fire in his childhood home. "I went to Missouri and I learned the truth." Dean smiles as he reads, entries on Wendigoes, shape shifters, almost every supernatural creature under the sun. Closing the book, he recalls another memory. "This is Dad's single most valuable possession," he is telling a young, angst filled Sam in the middle of the Colorado woods. "Everything he knows about every evil thing is in here. And he's passed it on to us. I think he wants us to pick up where he left off…"

The family business. The one he had found to be "awesome" only twenty-four hours earlier. The one he still yearns to continue despite the fact that every fibre in his being wishes he could let it go. Dean pulls the journal close, like a lifeline, eyes closed in reflection; he feels the worn leather between his fingers, warm and familiar, like a good drink before bed or the comfort of his hands grasping the wheel of his beloved Impala. He opens his eyes and his smile widens.

"My name is Dean Winchester," he says.


End file.
